Rain
by darcyfarrow
Summary: "On his right forearm Hook carries the image of my wife—his wife. But on his left arm, he carries the image of my son."


We've been sailing in calm waters for days, so many days I'm not sure my count is right. Calm waters, Hook says, and a weak wind will get us nowhere; we should hope for an angry Mother Nature. . . as angry as we are.

For Henry's sake, we sublimate the rage we hold for each other and channel it against Pan, ranting against his attack on an innocent child, plotting our counterattack, furiously debating what should be done, by whom, and when. Regina, Snow and Charming claim first rights in the choice of plan: they are experienced generals. I argue that it's no gentlemen's army we're up against, with flag carriers and swordsmen arranging themselves in neat rows, awaiting the blast of a trumpet to begin the killing; the Lost Ones fight guerrilla style. They will separate us, if they can, isolate us from each other, in a horde surround each individual and attack simultaneously and without warning from hiding places. There will be no opportunity for parley; Pan does not negotiate. There will be no opportunity for surrender.

Hook agrees with me on this point but claims his greater experience, both with Pan and with Neverland, grants him greater knowledge, and therefore his voice should be heard above all others. Snow and Charming and I claim a higher right, that of blood ties to the kidnapped child, as if all grandparents are wise and familial love is carried in chromosomes, until Emma shouts us down, for if blood equates with rights, she outranks us all. Regina is gut-punched when Emma makes her claim; I have never seen the queen so mortally wounded. It is as if the rest of us are saying her tie to Henry is one of paper only. I consider speaking up for her, for I know her love for the boy is genuine, but I leave her defenseless, for I can't—won't—forgive her for torturing Belle.

We argue—pointlessly, but it's not really about the plan of attack we're arguing. It's about guilt. Although none of us will say it aloud, we are blaming each other because we can't face the fact that each of us individually is responsible for Henry's kidnapping: the Charmings for their ineffectual handling of Regina, both in the old world and Storybrooke, for David sees that if they had only had the guts to carry out the Evil Queen's execution in the Enchanted Forest, the curse never would have happened, and Snow believes likewise, if she had only succeeded in reforming Regina (for, blindly, they doesn't realize there were others of Regina's ilk that I could have corrupted). . .

And I—I _know_ I am responsible for my grandson's kidnapping: I am responsible for Regina, for the curse, for Cora and Hook's attacks that distracted and divided the community, for the introduction of magic to a place it was never supposed to be. I am responsible for every failure that exposed us and made us vulnerable to the enemy. First and last, I am responsible for Bae's death.

We, all of us, accept our culpability, but we, none of us, can get beyond it, and so we channel our shame, our self-anger, our revulsion at our weak natures, into verbal attacks upon each other, until the day comes that I make the attack physical.

We stand, the five of us, scattered on the deck, staring out to sea as we wait for wind to push the ship from its lethargy. Even David and Snow have stopped talking, their guilt and their fears weighing heavily. Regina and I have given up our attempts to harness elemental magic; as they did in Storybrooke, our powers work sporadically and unpredictably here. I remember from an earlier foray into Neverland that adjustment and time are required. We practice with small but necessary spells: desalinating water, rehydrating dried fruits and fish, conjuring clothes fit for warfare. Emma will not join us in these attempts; she fears her own strength. She must overcome this dread: we will need her magic when we find Pan. But she distrusts Regina and me, so we leave it to her parents to change her mind. Here their battle experience will be useful, for they know a warrior must use any and all weapons at his or her disposal, particularly the most powerful ones, and I suspect Emma's magic to be quite strong, pure as it is—unlike mine and Regina's, undiluted by unhealthy emotions.

So we stand and stare, and time stands, and I think that we are cursed in the way I find most unbearable: cursed into inaction. We don't speak, we don't face each other, we don't face ourselves and try to deal with the guilt and anger: we wait for a push from the outside. In the still heat, we stare. And then in an instant it all blows to hell. From the corner of my eye, I see Hook remove his coat and I explode.

On his right arm is a tattoo of Milah—but that's not my provocation. To my surprise, as I stare at her inked image, I feel only a vague melancholy and a lingering confusion: I suppose I'll never figure out how she could have kissed me and taken me into her bed and bore me a child if she never loved me. I should feel guilt. Her crimes against me deserved punishment—and if I had only seen it at the time, between her own guilt for abandoning Bae and me and the miserable life she'd chosen with Hook, she would have suffered sufficiently. But in the torment of the moment I lashed out, I killed because I could, because no one could stop me, least of all me. As I would have done with Moe French, had the savior not intervened, I destroyed Milah because I could do no further destruction to myself; I had done all the self-damage I could.

I am guilty: I had a hand in the death of our marriage, in her abandonment of Bae, and because I couldn't face my guilt, I sacrificed her to it. I am guilty, but I have yet to feel remorse. Had Regina not stolen Belle from me for so many years, I'm sure I would feel the weight of all I have done. Had Pan not stolen me away from Belle, I would have someday sought forgiveness. As it is, it will have to be enough that justice is served by my death in Neverland.

On his right forearm Hook carries the image of my wife—his wife. But on his left arm, he carries the image of my son. I see that and explode. I am on him before he can draw a breath; my hand at his throat, I demand to know why he wears my child's image.

Hook curls his lips back, snarling and laughing at the same time, and perhaps, I realize later, grieving: "Because he was _my_ son, more than he was yours."

As the Charmings come running and Regina giggles in surprise, I tighten my grip and Hook wheezes. "Because he loved _me_, not you. He hated you, feared you, despised everything about you, the killer of his mother."

My grip slips as the import of Hook's accusation hits me. "He knew?"

Hook spits, "I told him. And any lingering love he had for you he threw overboard."

I take a step backwards as I try to take this information in. . . as I grasp in vain for denials. Hook presses his advantage: "I gave him the truth, which you never loved him enough to do, and then I gave him a home, here, on this ship, with me. I became his father—just like Milah had planned."

My hand clenches at air until I remember my cane. The gold handle reminds me that, though my magic may be unstable, my powers exceed Hook's, as does my ruthlessness. The cane thrills me.

"That's right," Hook continues. "We were on our way back to take him from you."

"Don't!" Snow shouts at me but I can barely hear her for the blood pounding in my ears. "Rumplestiltskin, we need him!" David adds. "We can't get to Neverland without him."

But I don't believe that, or I don't care; I'm not sure which; for Hook has defiled my memory of Bae, he's dishonored my son, and he's killing me as surely as if he'd slammed my dagger into my chest. I put everything—three hundred years of torment—into my cane. Hook becomes for me Hodor and Zoso and Milah and Cora and myself, everyone who's scarred me. . . and God help me, Bae—for I am blind with rage at the realization that my son abandoned me, threw me overboard like rotting fish, chose this oily bastard over me, as his mother did. Didn't trust me to find him—or didn't love me enough to want to be found.

With every ounce of strength in my arm, I strike the bastard who stole my family, bring the cane down on the fine bones of his face and his hands, for I want blood first, a river of it, I want him to smell and swallow his own blood as I slowly, methodically kill him. Snow and David continue to yell, plead and argue, yank at my arms, but I don't even glance at them: an afterthought of magic pushes them back. Regina enjoys the show for a long moment before she too attempts to save Hook: she tries to cast a protection spell upon him and when that doesn't work, she becomes anxious and tries to do something to my cane. Her attempts are weak and I easily block them all.

But there is a power stronger than mine, and it seizes me: the savior's hand on my wrist, her shocked voice in my ear: "Stop! Gold, stop." In my blindness I can't tell if it's her magic that overcomes me or something else, but my hand freezes in mid-air, and she pries the cane from it and tosses it into the ocean. My head turns toward her. Her eyes are large and in them there is no accusation, only my own pain mirrored back at me. "I lost him too," she whispers, and past her shoulder I see the ocean's waves rising, and far above her head I see heavy clouds gathering. "I loved him too." There's a crack of thunder in the distance and fat drops of rain wet our faces.

I surrender to her. I don't know why: in my ruthlessness I could easily overtake her. I lower my arm and stand there, stunned, drained of all strength, that of my body and that of my magic. And then I swallow and her arms come around me and her head finds my shoulder, and I rest my damp cheek against her sleek hair. "You could have been my daughter," I whisper back to her, and my hand moves of its own accord to stroke her hair.

"Come on," she urges, ignoring the bleeding lump at our feet, brushing past her parents, ignoring Regina, who with an annoyed sigh kneels and applies a handkerchief to Hook's split lip and broken nose.

The savior leads me, and I allow her to lead me, into the hold of the ship, past the captain's cabin, to the crew's. She sets me down on the same bed upon which she placed me before, when I was dying of Hook's poison, and she sits down beside me, and we continue to hold each other, our faces wet with rain. For the second time in my life, I take strength from one of True Love's own.

"Tamara and Hook will pay for taking him from us," Emma says when we have released our tears. "You and I will make sure of that, together. But first we have to save Henry."

Reluctantly I nod. I'd made a promise to Bae: I will send his son home; I have to see that through. I was wrong when I quipped to Regina that the boy has my eyes: those eyes are Bae's, and it's only through Henry now that Bae will live. Through Henry and through this woman who was meant to be Bae's forever.

And through me.

Something in my face changes, and Emma sees the difference. I would die to save Henry, but I want to live if I can. I will keep Bae's memory alive through Emma and Henry, and I will honor Bae through loving Belle.

I no longer want to send Henry home: I want to _take _him home.

* * *

**A/N. I took a small liberty with the Milah tattoo: I thought it would be more effective if it were an image instead of just her name. **


End file.
